the bubble head bitch is interviewingthe marine asshole on some mindlessmorning showthey are surrounded by peoplewith balloons and posterboardswho wave at the camerahopped up on starbucks coffeeand their pathetic fifteen minutesbubble head bitch tells marine assholethere are people who disagreewith his actionswhich were emptying two magazinesinto two iraqi insurgentsthen writing No Better Friend No Worse Enemyon the hood of their carmarine asshole says that’s finehe fought in a warto defend those people’s rightto disagreejust what the world needsanother american manstickin’tohisguns

I Could've Been a Flower

I was on the groundmute and delicateon my backI could've beena floweror a weedbut I was a six year old girland he was the preacher's boy from across the streetan average sized teenage boybut to me he was a giantand I couldn't fight him offhe pinned me downand I saw that the clouds were in the skyand I could hear the birds in the trees and on the telephone wires andthe carsdriving down the streetand he gave me a Little Golden bookfilled with songsand told me to read to himand if I could readhe would let me goI was so scared and illiterateI was such a slow learnerlate bloomerI was a dumb kidnot the kind of kid parents brag about at cocktail partiesand I was weakand meeknot a fighterand I don't know where my parents wereI don't know where anyone wasI was thereand hewas above meand that was first in a seriesof episodes that made my inner voice dialoguework overtime and off the clockI am smallI am a girlI am weakI cannot speakI have no voiceI have no choiceThey can push me downand step on meI'm going to have to learn how to readI'm going to have to learn how to screamThis isn't a dreamThis is life happening whether the angels in heaven like it or notThey must be having an off dayThey must be having choir practice

I could've been a flowerbut Iwasa girl

Misti Rainwater-Lites is the editor and publisher of Instant Pussy, a monthly print zine that features poetry that does not suck, collages, weird craig's list personals, tits & ass & pussy & the occasional cock. http://instantpussy.tripod.com

Monday, August 21, 2006

Poetry By A.D. Winans

FOR KELL

Old guitar slung over his backPure country singing the bluesin all of uswith eyes that cry out to be heardLeaving a message onAnnie’s answering machineReading a poem about a birdthat died in his handsRemembering the scatteringof his daughter’s ashesCaught in the pit of sorrowThis man of musicThis one time old friendwho works the nerve endslike a skilled surgeonStill fightinglike the rest of usfor whatever timeis left

CITY HAPPENINGS

there having a rumbleat Ellis and Eddy streetsand the police are slowto respondyou can see the rage in theChicano’s eyes smell thefear in Whitey theBlacks are shuckingand jiving and rolling dicewhile placing bets on winnerand losers alikethe street whores move downa block or twoto ply their tradeone white, one Asianone spade

the black and white arrivesat last dispensing the playerslike bit actors auditioningfor a role in the big show

small town punks gather themselvesrun for coverdon’t stop to look backhead for crack-housebiding their timelike a stoned Jesushung out to dryon your mother’s clothesline

BILL

He keeps a photograph tucked awayInside his meager belongingsThree soldiers smiling smoking cigarettesA Viet Cong in black pajamasHanging upside down from a poleGutted like a fishFlesh nailed to wood Jesus fashionNeeds no captionGuilt shadows him in doorwaysAnd under freeways whereHe now makes his homeIncoming artillery tears at his nervesPieces of flesh stuck to bambooLike a piece of meat thrust intoA tiger’s cageVietnamese peasantsSuspected Cong haunt his dreamsLike a faceless Santa Clause leavingBehind a bag of body parts

GOING TO MAKE POETRYAN INSTITUTION

The preacher mandon’t believe in evolutionThe con-mandon’t believe in revolutionThe priest has run outof absolutionNo more autographsNo more forced laughsNo more hanging around the zooswapping stories with gurusGoing to smoke some dopewith my good friend the PopeGoing to make love nice and slowRead me some Edgar Allen PoeLose myself in the late night showGoing to make a cameo appearanceon the 10 p.m. newsPlay me some John Lee Hooker bluesGoing to penetrate a prerogativeBugger the cosmosEvolve evolution into a revolutionPut anarchy on the stockmarketNuke technology outlaw e-mailDeclare Da Da the officialEnglish languageGoing to hang religion from a treeMake John Brown the newNational AnthemTurn outlaws into in-lawsLand owners into donorsPut Bukowski’s faceon Mount RushmorePay homage to a whoreGoing to name a bus afterRosa ParkPut a little nookiein every fortune cookieExpose Saint Nick as a chickwith a dickGoing to invite the First Ladyto ride through the streets of Chinatowndressed in a see-through nightgownGoing to talk to the fly in the soupalone or in a groupGoing to sing a ballad withLorca and a band of gypsiesstop off at the managerand have a talk with the Lone RangerGoing to put an end to hemorrhoidsOutlaw humanoidsGoing to offer a truceBring back Lenny BruceMake politicians ride the cabooseGoing to go back to schoolErase the golden ruleGoing to feed a vultureStarve off mass cultureGoing to turn evolution intoA revolutionMake poetry an institution

A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet, writer and photographer. His work has been published internationally. Recent books include This Land Is Not My Land (Presa Press) and The Last Rodeo (Bottle of Smoke Press). Presa Press will be publishing a book of his Selected Poems in January 2007. He can be contacted at ad1936@juno.com

Monday, August 07, 2006

I really like Christopher Robin's stuff. Funny, elegant, sad poems. Good poems. Christopher is from Santa Cruz, California and he publishes one of the two or three best poetry magazines in the country. Aptly titled Zen Baby, you can get a copy by sending a couple bucks to PO Box 1611, Santa Cruz CA 95061.

Poetry By Christopher Robin

Xerox Sprint

How will we interpretThis reluctant American incarnation?This wasteland of cells and shortcomings…Low budget/unfinished hologramsShoot across scarred bellies/Unholy canvases/Bodies we can’t translate-In hereThat check will never be cashedIn herePunk rock beats gurgle up through the toiletAnd mix with surrealismAt the cracklin’ MicThis is a carnival of bullshitThe cops are right outsideTrying to make the distinction betweenThose with a poemAnd those withoutBut how can they tell?We get:Walt Whitman tattoosAnd Emily Dickinson enemasBuy old carsCollect typewritersJoin MySpace/Cell-phonedOr chopping-woodCelibateOr sexually-panickedUnmade beds smelling of schemes…Some of us fast/And some just sit stillto wait for the wineTo bring a supernatural dawn/picked last for the teamor not picked at allSome of us will break outOff the beer/off the doleMost of us won’tMy ink is an eternal sprintAcross these Xeroxed outsider pagesMy friends and I are headlinesIn the papers no one reads-Moving so fast through the livingI fear boredom more than deathAnd I refuse to sleep-The lumbering old trains pass us bySinging their graffitied-death-rattlewhile we sling emailswith lightning irrelevance-in the city/honor what kills youor say uncle

GIVE US A LAP DANCE-THE END IS NEAR!

The future’s givin’ a lap dance but luckily it’s too dark to see the wrinkles

so stand at attention feel that red, white and blue pride swell

She’s got two bad eyes a sore on her lip Destiny is browbeaten hunkered down ready to one up herself

She ain’t got nothin’ on Hitler, Mussolini, Cheney, DOES she?

Please board now the ship they told us would never sink

is sinking AGAIN but the sunset is amazing the record is skipping

the champagne has been pissed in so many times the universal joke IS embalmed

Worm eaten PASSE

Nobody’s laughin’ the parties been over since the first stone was ever hurled

We are limping towards our own execution the corners of our mouths clipped in irony

practiced in black-lit mirrors reading Spin Magazine

and what a story this will make!

Where we can link our ‘elevated yellow” PANIC? and government sanctioned

illiterate but downloading-all-the-deeper-meanings–plastic-band-of-cyber-monkeys….

with my phone unpluggedI get the news in my sleep via karmic reruns of a century imploding on itself

All those hometown leg-less boys could be sitting on barstools right now watching

football games holding the women’s movement back fifty years

Or shooting deer instead of Iraqi’s

my heroes will go AWOL or bomb Wall Street

But what do I know about bringing down empires? I have barely the fortitudeTo tie my own shoes!

I HAVE BEEN DECLARED INCOMPETENT! ‘Born to Lose’? my planned

obsolescence was planned by me

it’s all quicksand

this American dream

and we are all at this very moment NOWHERE TO BE FOUND

praise be to Allah for that

Clown Fish

I can’t workI’ve dedicated this dayto snapping my fingersand singing a choruswith the lastheartbeat of the worldI’m a carnie animalugly jackskipping over minefieldsof loose synapsesa broken headedprofessional bumblerby tradegender mutantof the sensual circuslilting ghost radioin my nervesof a zig zaggingcarefreepony-tailed girlwho I loved withsuch impossible beliefI asked her to please grow upand leave mein the loopof the eternal summer 8-Trackwith an endless boyhood skyand no mothers calling me homethe dummy of the furious walksearching for an ill defined mysticismpromised to mewhen the worldfell out of my skullI dream the numbersI own the make believebut I can’t find a nickelto scratch the sunshineout of this winning day